Of Christmas and Chemistry
by She's a Star
Summary: Tis the season: Cordelia plays matchmaker, Wesley pines, and Fred contemplates chemistry, perhaps in more forms than one. Set in early season 3.


**Of Christmas and Chemistry**

_By She's a Star_

**Disclaimer:** Angel belongs to Joss Whedon. One of Fred's lines belongs, in essence, to J.K. Rowling, because I heard her saying that in my head this morning and found I just could not resist.

**A/N:** This is for my dear friend, Storm. :-D Merry Christmas!

* * *

"You're kinda pathetic. You do know that, right?"

"Thank you, Cordelia; I'm certainly touched by that observation."

"Ugh, no need to go all whiny and Mr. Sensitive on me. I'm telling you this for your own good."

"Ah, well, in that case, thank you. Now, if you don't mind, I'd rather appreciate it were you to go away."

"Like you're getting rid of me that easily. Please."

Much as he was not in the mood for any sort of self-improvement counseling that Cordelia might feel compelled to provide, Wesley recognized the edge in her tone far too well. It communicated with crystalline clarity that there was no point in attempting to drive her away, so he might as well sit and listen, or at least make a fair pretense of doing so.

"What is it, then?" he capitulated, throwing in an impatient sigh in order to communicate that he was not pleased about this, whatever it was.

"It's Christmastime, right?" Cordelia asked, choosing to ignore his lack of enthusiasm as she perched on the corner of his desk and absently began fiddling with a pen.

"Yes . . ."

"And, well, Christmas is a time for getting what you want," she continued. "Which you boys had better keep in mind, because I am _dying_ for that green angora sweater, and it's not like it's easy having all these revel-migraines-pale-in-comparison visions for you year-round, thank you very much—" At this point, she apparently became aware of the fact that she had strayed a bit from her original topic, and pasted on a bright smile as she met his eyes. "But anyway! We're not here to talk about that – but I'd drop a few hints to Angel if I were you, okay?"

"Will do," Wesley said dryly.

"Great! But anyway, my point is – now, Mr. Wyndam Pryce, we're gonna talk about what you want."

"What I want?" Wesley repeated blankly.

"Yep!" Cordelia said.

"And what on earth might you suspect I wa—"

"Oh, don't even try it," Cordelia cut in, rolling her eyes. "It's pretty obvious what you want."

"Er. It is?"

"Oh, God, yes." She was enjoying this far too much. "Not to mock, but it's a little hard to miss, what with you drifting around here all the time, all 'I-only-have-eyes-for-our-cutesy-crazy-new-science-nerd.'"

"I most certainly do not drift!" Wesley protested.

"You drift," Cordelia informed him firmly. "But that's okay. I mean, love makes us all a little stupid – although, okay, some more than others—"

"I am not in _love_ with Fred!" Wesley cut in, and could not hope noticing with a considerable amount of apprehension that the office door had been left open, and the cheerfully chattering voices of Gunn and . . . the girl he did not love were spilling through it, nearly perfectly audible. "Just because I find her an intelligent and admirable young woman, and a most valuable addition to Angel Investigations, and a rather enchanting personality . . ."

. . . For 'enchanting' was certainly a fitting description; he couldn't remember the last time he'd met someone with the ability to captivate so utterly . . .

Um.

". . . does _not_ mean that I am in love with her," he finished; the proclamation, he found, was far more lacking in conviction than he had intended.

Damn.

"Uhhh huh," Cordelia said slowly, staring at him as though he had just attempted to convince her that he was an accomplished ballet dancer. "So, what're you gonna do about it?"

"About _what_?"

"Fred, genius."

"Nothing!" he practically yelped.

Oh dear. This really wasn't going well.

"Yeah," said Cordelia, exasperated. "I'd expected as much. Well, that's not gonna cut it. It's Christmas, and much as the idea tends to freak me out, even you deserve a little lovin' once in awhile."

"Cordelia, honestly."

". . . and charming as our little Sunnydale High infatuation was, I'm not feeling reformed-Scrooge enough to be that special woman in your life," Cordelia went on airily.

"I'm heartbroken, I assure you," Wesley deadpanned.

She glared at him. "The point is, you can't just ignore this Fred thing. Come on. Ask her out! Share some eggnog! 'Tis the season, buddy."

"Oh, yes," Wesley scoffed. "Christmas is indeed the ideal time to shower unsuspecting young women with thoroughly undesired attention."

"Right!" Cordelia agreed immediately, then took a moment to consider his words. Frowning, she amended, "Okay, not quite. And besides," she leaned a little further across the desk and succeeded in wrinkling with flourish a page of translations he had been working on over the last hour, "who's to say this attention is thoroughly undesired?"

"Please, Cordelia. She hasn't shown the faintest interest – not," he added composedly, "that I cared to begin with."

"You know what, Wesley?" Cordelia asked, crossing her arms in front of her chest. It was becoming increasingly clear that she was rapidly losing patience with him, which he could only hope meant that she would soon be prompted to discontinue this ridiculous conversation and leave him alone. "Underneath all the books and the six syllable words and the . . . kinda girly taste in movies, you are such a typical _guy_."

"Why, thank you," Wesley said dryly. "Once again, I'm touched."

(Really. What, exactly, rendered _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ such a 'girly' movie, anyhow?)

Cordelia reached across the desk in order to swat him rather viciously on the arm. "Can't you just _listen_ to me?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Absolutely not," she responded promptly. "So stop making things difficult. The point is that she's totally interested – or at the very least, there's some definite potential for interest."

"Potential?" he repeated, disgustingly hopeful despite himself.

Cordelia smirked. "You heard me. Did anyone else laugh for two minutes straight this morning at your dorky chemical bonding joke?"

Wesley considered this. "Well, no . . ."

"See? There ya go. She appreciates the humourous properties of covalent bonds, as told by you. In what way does that _not_ suggest soulmatehood?"

"Cordelia—"

"Ask her out," Cordelia commanded, not without an unnerving amount of ferocity.

"I will do no such thing!"

"Ask her, or soon she's not gonna be there for you to ask."

"Ah, you've moved on to petty threats; how charming."

"Petty? Listen to that." She fell silent and nodded toward the door; Gunn and Fred's blending laughter became suddenly and uncomfortably audible. Wesley stared very pointedly down at the open volume on his desk, and tried to act as though the sound weren't something that filled him with a very pronounced sense of dread.

"Come on, Wesley," Cordelia said, more softly now; her hand met his forearm again, though this time in a decidedly gentler manner. "You deserve this."

He inhaled, and found himself vaguely horrified to discover that he was actually considering Cordelia's words. To be able to spend Christmas with Fred, to at least have the chance of something with her, would be . . . very, very nice, to put it lightly. And really, what made it such a terrible risk? The worst thing she could say was . . .

No.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them to meet Cordelia's with as much resolve as he could muster. "I hold no interest in Fred. Not in that way."

There. Surely she couldn't argue with that.

"Aargh!"

Cordelia pulled away from the desk and stood up, making no attempt to veil her frustration. "Wesley Wyndam Pryce, you are so— _fine_. If you're not going to do anything about this, then I suppose I'll be forced to."

"Go ahead," he returned, and was pleased to note that he sounded far less intimidated than he felt. "Do your worst."

"Oh, you bet I will!" Cordelia snapped, storming out of the office with all the indignation a former vapid high school queen could produce.

He stared after her, trying his best to ignore the sense of fear (no, not fear; he was not afraid of Cordelia) that had taken up residence within him.

Really – what was the worst she could do?

* * *

"Wesley?"

"Ah!" Wesley said, and made a spectacular show of nearly falling out of his chair. He still refused to consider the notion of being _afraid_ of Cordelia Chase, but that did not change the fact that spending three and a half hours sitting in an office waiting for a viciously promised _something_ to occur did not work wonders for one's nerves.

And now, as he set eyes on the figure who had prompted his incident, the panic chose to manifest quite splendidly.

It was funny, really, that Fred could bring about such a thing; she looked perfectly delicate and docile, wearing a Santa hat and a rather bemused smile as she stood in the doorway.

"You okay in there?" she inquired brightly.

"Er, yes. Just . . . just fine, Fred." He made his most valiant attempt at sitting up with composure and dignity, and managed to knock a stapler off his desk in the process. "What can I do for you?"

Oh dear. Perhaps that hadn't been wise. If Cordelia had been planting thoughts in Fred's head concerning his, er, interest in her, that particular question could certainly be taken entirely the wrong way, and—

"Oh, nothing, really," she responded, smiling quite obliviously. "Cordelia just asked me to come in here and get you. She wants us all out in the lobby to look at the Christmas tree."

Ah. Well, that wasn't so bad.

"Of course," Wesley said, and stood up quite successfully. He made a point not to stumble over the stapler as he made his way toward the doorframe of the office.

"Ya know, I still can't stop laughin' about that joke you made this morning," Fred chattered on merrily. "I suppose maybe it wasn't even supposed to be that funny, but there's just something about the way chemistry works, and the little ions, you know? Sometimes I'd think about it in Pylea, you know, when I wasn't worried about being slaughtered like a cow, and – and everything, and it would just be so funny, with all the electron sharin' and the ions bonding . . . it's almost sort of romantic."

She smiled up at him, her warm eyes seeming almost to sparkle. "Don't you think?"

"Oh, er – yes," Wesley agreed; he found himself troublesomely preoccupied with a stray curl that had escaped her ponytail and was currently brushing lightly against the side of her face. It suddenly seemed a very necessary thing to push that curl back into place . . . "I've always thought chemistry to be, er, very . . . romantic."

Fred's smile blossomed into a grin, and she giggled a little through her words. "You know, I really like that about you. The others are wonderful, of course: Cordy and Angel and Gunn, but . . . I feel like we're kinda on the same page, you and me, you know?"

"I think I have some idea, yes," Wesley said, unable to resist a smile of his own.

"You're sweet," Fred professed, beaming; their gazes lingered just long enough for Wesley to conclude that she was without a doubt the most breathtaking creature he had ever known before her eyes flitted upward slightly. Immediately, she let out a small gasp, and Wesley glanced up as well.

His heart seemed for a moment to stall quite effectively.

_Damn it, Cordelia._

"Mistletoe," Fred observed in a breathless whisper.

"It . . . appears to be," Wesley concurred, unable to tear his gaze from it.

Before he could quite register what was occurring, Fred had reached over and entwined her fingers with his, and –

Pulled him rather recklessly away from under the doorframe and out into the lobby.

"Uh," he said intelligently.

"That was a close one," Fred said, and let out a little sigh of relief.

"It was?" Wesley asked blankly.

"Oh, yeah!" Fred nodded, her eyes wide. "It can get pretty dangerous, you know, what with mistletoe almost always being infested with nargles, and all."

". . . Nargles."

"I'm just glad I thought of it in time. Otherwise, who knows what would've happened?"

"Indeed," Wesley said, not without a certain amount of regret.

"Ooh, look at the tree – it's so pretty!"

Without wasting a second, Fred bolted over to the tree and immediately began inspecting the various ornaments with near-reverent attention. Feeling rather at a loss, Wesley stared after her.

"So," came a rather vexingly enthusiastic voice from behind him, "how'd it go?"

"Cordelia," Wesley responded rather tonelessly, not bothering to turn and face her, "what are nargles?"

"What are _what_?"

"Nargles."

"Are you okay? I think you've been smelling old books too long."

"That could very well be," Wesley agreed faintly.

Cordelia came up to stand next to him and placed a sympathetic arm around his shoulders. "No luck, huh?"

"Not as such, no."

Although for a moment she seemed tempted to engage in a rather impassioned round of lecturing, Cordelia appeared to stifle the urge quite quickly. "Ah, no big deal. There's no way I'm going to give up that easily."

Wesley smiled dimly but didn't reply; instead he opted to watch Fred as she stared at a red glass ball with far more fascination than was ordinary. Well, then.

_That makes two of us._


End file.
